


Always Never Always

by Sylvie_Featherfoot



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvie_Featherfoot/pseuds/Sylvie_Featherfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day of the Tony Awards, before and after the ceremony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Never Always

"Always." "Never." The words whispered like wind, spun in his head, round and round. The spinning words - they were what made him dizzy. "Always, never, always . . . never. Always." Trailing away, her voice. He had to steady the neck of the bottle on the rim of the glass to pour. Knock it back. His body felt, was, drunk. His mind felt clear. Was drunk, had to be. Another. Spilled some, this time, on the rumpled sheets.

"There'll always," she'd said, "be a Karen." Said it with acceptance, affection, even. But with finality. She'd walked away before he could tell her she was wrong. And what could he have said, that wouldn't have hurt her? That he'd made actresses, before, but Karen was singular? Special . . . Not much of an actress, when you came down to it, but that didn't matter. She made men dream, Karen did. The lovely face, the lovely voice, the seeming pliancy - perhaps her most appealing quality onstage. Not real, of course, if "whim of iron" had a face, it was Karen Cartwright's. But taking that material, shaping it and putting it onstage to glow over the audience had been a unique excitement. Twice over, actually.

His stomach, empty - of food - for too many hours, protested when he poured more whiskey into it; he swallowed bile. Didn't want to think about Karen. "Shimmy, shimmy, gimme, gimme" Karen. Stupid of her, stupid of him, to think he needed to bed her to have her. He'd had her, oh, yes, well and truly - the only way it could count for them. Made her, put her up in the light for all to see.

Ivy the reverse - and admit it, you sorry sod, he thought, you never really "had" Ivy at all. Bedded her six ways from Sunday, so delicious, her smooth, firm skin, her lushness, her laughter. Directed her, choreographed her, guided her characterization. Well, tried to. Ivy's Marilyn wasn't his, wasn't really Tom's, nor Julia's either, although her magnificent debut had displayed all of these, not in turn but together. And offstage, she'd always eluded him, somehow, even when she sought him out, even when they coupled.

"You'll never change," she'd said. "You never do the right thing, you never will." Never, never, never eddied, swirling like water going down a drain. Along with his career. There'd been a film, hadn't there, "For Love of Ivy?" He'd confessed to - what was the epithet Julia had told him Tom applied to Michael Riedel? Couldn't remember. Didn't care. Done it right, or so he'd thought - no word against Daisy, full "props," as they said, to Ana, he took all the blame - and all the shame. If theatre had a "sin against the Holy Ghost," he'd committed it. "A million stupid mistakes," he'd told her, months ago. A million and one, now, and that one might be the end of him in the world he loved, the only world he understood how to live in. Correction - he used to understand. Or had he, ever? Perhaps he'd been a clueless get every step, only saved by his talent.

And he'd waited. Insane to think she'd call. But he'd hoped for, he'd needed, her call. It hadn't come. And the storm had broken over his head, and he was still sheltering from it in bottles of whiskey. Cowering, he was. Hiding shamefully, in his shame. Christ, he was everything Ivy had ever called him, and a lot she hadn't.

Could he pour? Yes, spilling good whiskey, again. The glass was tricky, he needed both hands to control it. Down it went. And almost immediately, up it came. Perhaps the fact that he got to the bathroom in time proved there was a God, but he wanted word from someone else.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Not word from her had come, but she herself. Wrinkling her pretty nose at the stench, "a dive," she'd said, giving him - what he counted on her to give - the truth, and these days, kindly told. And the miracle - "I love you." She'd given him no chance to speak, just gone. Whiskey, it had to be whiskey, had leaked from his eyes, burning. He'd showered, as she'd bidden, eaten something and kept it down, tried two double shots of espresso, dressed. He was as presentable as he could manage, and well ahead of schedule. American Express card, on reflection, checkbook too. He had a stop to make.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A few hours, a changed world, a lifetime later, they found a secluded corner, sat, their Tonys side by side on the low table before them. Silence.

"You did the right thing, Derek, truly - about Ana. And thank you for what you said up there." Braver than he was, she'd begun. And stopped there, searching his face.

"All I did was tell the truth, Ivy, I don't deserve thanks for it." A little shift in her face, he couldn't read her. He held her eyes. "And I will say, 'I love you, Ivy Lynn,' anywhere, anytime, and tell anyone and everyone you choose." Her composure was cracking, her lips trembled, she swallowed. Then shook her head, mystifying him.

"Derek, I -" she shut her lips tight. Took breath. "I'm" she looked away, the next word so low he almost missed it "pregnant." The earth skewed, slipped crazily. He gaped at her.

"Don't sit there with your mouth hanging open, for God's sake, say something!" Low voiced, trying and failing to keep it light. He heard the tears threaten. So much came clear, now. So much. He laughed, grabbing her hand and kissing it, watching the anger at his laughter come and then die in her eyes.

"Marry me, Ivy." So much easier than he'd expected it to be. She tried to pull her hand from his, but he held fast. 

"Derek, this isn't the 19th century, you don't have to ma-" she stopped as he extended his free hand to her, the four-carat solitaire resting on his palm. And it was her turn to gape.

She looked at the ring without touching it. Shook her head again, but not in rejection. "You don't want to run? As far and as fast as possible?"

"Ivy, I love you. And I need you. I've been learning the hard way exactly how much I do need, and love you. Marry me, we'll sort this all out." He grinned "I won't say I'm not scared, I am, I'm scared to death, but I'm not running, not now, not ever. Say yes."

She looked at him - was a smile tickling the corners of her mouth? - looked away, again, but he heard her soft "yes," and he let go her hand to place the diamond where it belonged, before again kissing her fingers.

She held out her hand to admire (well she might - the ring had cost more than she'd paid for her apartment, if she but knew), tilting her head . "A girl's best friend, they say," and now she was grinning, too.

"Not yours," he said, and patted her award lightly. "This is a better friend to you than diamonds."

Mischievous, dimpling, she picked up a Tony in each hand. "And I have two now - you dedicated yours to me, so that makes it mine, right?"

He nodded. "That's my girl."


End file.
